


I Promise

by SingSwan_SpringSwan



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Allusions to Physical Abuse, Enola doesn’t need protecting but a little help can’t hurt sometimes, Fluff, Gen, Lady Basilwether ships it, Sherlock becomes Enola’s guardian, Sibling Fluff, Tewky and Enola being relationship goals, just man up and tell her you love her, possible trigger warning for abuse, protective older brother trope, real men have emotions, sherlock you coward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27046909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingSwan_SpringSwan/pseuds/SingSwan_SpringSwan
Summary: “I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.”“Just like his cruelty to our mother was out of your hands.”A progression of Enola and Sherlock’s relationship before and after the events of the movie. Directly harping on the Protective Older Brother & Little Sister trope because I’m a dreamer and that’s my favorite.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Lady Basilwether, Enola Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Sherlock Holmes & Viscount “Tewky” Tewksbury, Viscount “Tewky” Tewksbury & Lady Basilwether
Comments: 58
Kudos: 668





	I Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure if the [his cruelty] in this scene was referring to Mycroft, or Eudoria’s husband, but given that Mycroft is just an uptight prick and not exactly a brute or an ill-meaning person, I’m inclined to believe that it’s meant to mean the Father Holmes. This was supposed to be a short one-shot. It’s not. And I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.

At first, the two little feet simply shuffle down the hall. They are quiet, as intended, loathe to make a single sound. The goal is easily enough achieved, because the one they carry is small and clever, and she knows to spread her toes out and ease her joints to keep the boards of wood from creaking. 

Her destination, the closed door at the end of the hall, seems so very far away, just like every other thing in the house. There is always lots of distance. Nevertheless, this does not stop her from going, time though it may take. She has compulsion, after all, and it comes in the form of fear. What a very powerful thing.

The boards shriek all of a sudden. This is due to the fact that she jumps in surprise, flinching with her whole body. She jumped because the noise from down the landing just got louder by the count. And the noise is getting louder because something broke. Something shattered. And there is yelling and someone is crying.

New fear erupts in her little chest, and she cannot care to hide her movements any longer. She runs to the closed door. She does not mind the groaning floor, or the fact that she’s supposed to be in bed; no one from downstairs will hear anyway, too consumed with their own racket to heed a tiny, terrified mouse.

The door knob is very tall, and very hard to reach. It is far away. But she reaches up to open it regardless, because she wants to. She must stand on her toes, and stretch as far up as her arm will go.

Faint, warm,  _ safe _ light drifts into the shadowy hall. Light from a single lamp on the table beside the bed.

She is careful not to let it all out, not to saturate it with the darkness behind her—even though she wants nothing more than to barge in and slam the door shut. A new kind of trepidation grips her, and she pauses with her small hand against the wood, half her face peering hesitantly into the room.

There is a figure sitting up on the bed, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, back resting lightly against the headboard. A well-worn book is held in limp hands. Shoulders tight, tense. Lips pinched. The dark brow is furrowed in concentration—though not concentration on the words of the page. The tired blue eyes trail back over the same sentence, so his mind is clearly elsewhere. Likely deep in thought.

She hums with hesitant uncertainty.

Suddenly, his head snaps up, and he notices her for the first time. So lost he must have been in his own mind, to not even notice the door inching open.

“Enola,” He murmurs in his low, reassuring voice.

Despite it not being a direct invitation, she already feels safer, even though the yelling from below hasn’t stopped. His strong, calm presence is comforting. Feeling bolder, she pushes the door another fraction.

“Sherlock?” She says in a small, timid voice. “May I come in?”

Again, she seems to have caught him off guard, and he blinks once before twitching abruptly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She doesn’t need to explain why she’s there. He can guess. He is smart in a way that she too wishes to be.

No time is wasted in squeezing past the door. It is heavy, and thick, but she cannot be bothered by heaving it closed, because the noise from the fight immediately lessens.

The boy watches her curiously. He is not a man yet, but he will be gone in three years, and he is already grown. Enola is miniscule beside him. His great, massive form is bunched tightly where he sits, and as small as she is, there is room for her too.

She darts towards him.

The book has fallen in his lap, neglected with disinterest, and quite possibly forgotten. Enola dimly thinks that this is no fault on its part. It must be very interesting if he’d wanted to read it at all. He is simply distracted.

With some effort, she reaches up and clambors into the bed. That is the safest place in the whole house. Right next to him. If she sits there, she will be safe from all the noise that the door doesn’t hide. So much to his surprise, she burrows her way under the covers and curls up beneath his arm. Her eyes slide shut, and she sighs silently. Safe. She is safe.

For a while, he does nothing. It is rare for them to be affectionate. After all, he is disliking of physical touch, and he is not her friend. There are many many years between them. Even growing up as they had, infrequent were the moments they spent with one another. Few of their interests overlap.

Even so, they are family, and the kinship that Enola feels for him is nothing shy of love. He’s her big brother, after all. He will protect her, and guide her, and teach her. His touch is comfort, his presence is reassuring. 

And Enola is feeling very much reassured. 

He eventually lowers his arm, and stiffly hugs it around her shoulders. 

They sit like that for some time. The book must provide no respite to the rise and fall of the voices below. Enola is tired, and she wants to be asleep. She tucks her knees to her chest and leans her head against Sherlock’s warm chest, and if she listens, she can hear the slow thrum of his heart: heavy, and low, and steady.

Absently, he props the book up again, and tries to find the sentence he’s already memorized.

“I wish they would stop.” Enola sighs sadly.

He looks at her; she can feel his perplexed gaze. 

“They frighten me.” She explains further. “I don’t want Mother to get hurt.”

His shoulders sag, and it takes a moment for him to produce a response. “She will be alright.” But he is entirely unconvinced of this, as is obvious in his tone, even to Enola who is tired and only half awake.

“Sherlock?” She perceives that she is about to ask a dire question, and opens her eyes and tilts her head up. She stares at him earnestly.

He gives her a strange look in return, but the quality of his expression is of little importance. It only matters that he is honest with his answer.

“Would Father ever hurt me?”

There is pain in his eyes. It is only there for a moment—so briefly that Enola might well have imagined it—but she saw. She saw before a careful mask of neutrality washed over his features, and before he opened his mouth to lie with another truth.

“Father loves you.”

That is not a proper answer to the question and they both know as much. He winces. The movement would have been imperceptible to Enola if his arm hadn’t still been around her. She feels a heaviness seep into her chest. It pulls the corners of her mouth down. And because it hurts, tears begin to leak into her eyes.

“Oh—Enola,”

“You’ll protect me, won’t you? Sherlock?”

The neutral facade cracks, and now there is sadness underneath.

“I will not make a promise that I can’t keep. I won’t always be here.” He says regretfully. “But you can learn to protect yourself. You are strong. You will be able to.”

Enola does not want to protect herself. She is too small. Her lip trembles. “B-but, can’t you promise anyway? Even if you don’t know?”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I won’t lie to you. I don’t believe I could, even if I wanted.”

She knows that she will be alone one day, but she doesn’t want that day to come. Not while she is here, and Sherlock is big and he is strong too.

“And Mother?”

“What of her?” He asks softly.

“You can protect Mother.” This idea excites her, and she sits up, beginning again to hear the noise that the door fails to shut out. Driven with confidence that Sherlock can quiet it, her eyes go wide, and she places both of her little hands on his tense shoulder.

“You’re big like Father.” She informs him. “You’re strong enough. You can go down there now. You can make them stop.”

But he shakes his head again, even before she is finished speaking, and turns away. “No.” His jaw clenches, and his shoulders remain stiff.

This answer is more than unsatisfactory to Enola. He is smart, doesn’t he know that it is possible? Doesn’t he know by proxy then that he should?

“You must!”

“I cannot.”

“But you can!” She insists desperately. “You can!”

“Enola, enough!”

A single drop of water wobbles on the lid of her left eye, and after a silent second, it tips over and falls. How should he refuse? Why wouldn’t he agree to her plan? Was it flawed? Had she spoken ill? Why would he read when he could help stop the noise?

She didn’t want to make him angry. She just wanted the fighting to stop. She just wanted Mother to be safe, if no one else.

Sherlock watches the tear roll slowly down her cheek. He watches as it is joined by others, and Enola knows by his expression that he hadn’t meant for them to fall.

“I’m sorry.” He says, in a voice that implies the truth behind those words. “It’s out of my hands.”

Enola doesn’t believe the last statement, but for the moment, she forgives him. Mostly because the crying from downstairs has ceased, and in any case, she doesn’t want to talk about it a moment longer. She might not truly be safe, but that did not mean she didn’t have a right to feel it.

Miserably, she slumps down again and presses herself more firmly against him. She can feel him sigh.

“You should read aloud.” Her words come out in a bossy tone, but that’s not minded, and it doesn’t seem that he does either. “It will help you remember.”

And after her moment of excitement, she feels the need to calm once again. Sleep will erase her ill mood. And his voice will help her sleep. It will benefit the both of them.

Slowly, at her askance, he begins to speak. Starting softly, in his deep, rich murmur, the sentence runs out smoothly and is gone, like a passing trickle of water. He continues through the end of the chapter and past it. The sound of his voice and the feel of it beneath her head are like a steady hum, a slow symphony in the C major key.

Enola doesn’t really know what he says. She heeds not the words, listening only to the soothing music of his tone. It is enough to curb her anger and her fear. Enough to lull her eyes shut, and to even out her breath.

Safe? Safe. For now, at least. Hidden from the raised voices and sound of broken things. It doesn’t take Enola long to doze off. Sherlock continues to read, even after she is certain he thinks her unconscious. To an extent, she is—though she can still hear when the door opens a second time, and the tap of expensive, polished shoes steps closer.

“They broke an entire set of china.” A new voice bemoans loudly. “What a mess!” There is a strained quality to it, as if the person to whom it belonged was upset by the fact, and yet had convinced himself that he wasn’t. 

Sherlock shushes the voice with a quiet hiss, abruptly cutting off his smooth narration.

Enola, who hears this, is tempted to wake up and investigate. However, she is tired, and she fights to stay ignorant of the world, because it is easier than having to speak to people and be anything resembling intelligent. Nonetheless, she still shifts restlessly, and feels her brother’s shirt bunch in her little hand.

“Oh!” The new voice exclaims in a much softer tone. “Is that Enola?”

“Yes, and you’ve almost woken her.”

“Whatever is she doing in here? Shouldn’t she be in bed?”

Sherlock sighs. “She was upset by the fight.”

The expensive shoes quietly sneak closer. “I cannot  _ wait _ to get out of this bloody house.” Their owner whispers. He sounds subtly bitter. “I stay out all night to avoid their squabbles, and still I am unsuccessful in getting any peace.”

It is quiet for a moment. Then Sherlock pitifully says, “Mother and Father will miss you.”

A resigned sniff. “Well, I shall not miss them.”

Sherlock tries again. “Enola will miss you.”

“I think not. She is too young to remember me. Soon enough, she will forget that I existed too.”

“You believe so?”

“I recall nothing from when I was her age. I don’t worry about it.” 

Sherlock’s shoulder jostles slightly, as if a hand has been set upon it.

“And you, dear brother, you will join me soon enough. We’ll get out of this wretched place and make our own names. And we’ll provide a good governess for Enola, so she needn’t be raised by that brute, or his wild woman.”

“You certainly are kind in your descriptions.” Sherlock mutters.

A scoff. “I am truthful. There is no way for me to be kind. Now, I cannot force you to close this lamp and put away your smart book, but I can see to it that our sister goes to bed proper.”

The blankets shift, and Enola is suddenly cold. She feels herself frown.

“Come now, I’ll bring her back to her room.”

Two strong arms scoop her tiny body up. Even though they are covered in overcoat, they are warm, and that is good.

“I’ll sort out the mess in the morning.” 

Enola can feel the words through vibrations from the arms that hold her. “Sleep well, little brother.”

“Do the same.” Sherlock sighs. “Goodnight Enola.”

_ Goodnight _ . She thinks.  _ Thank you for reading _ .

**< ~><><~>**

“Please,” She is imploring him again, only now she is much older than before, and far less helpless. Yet she still asks for him. Still asks that he protect her.

And of course she wants protection. He notices things, and the stinging red blotch on her cheek is far from subtle. But when he finally turns his head to look at her, seeing it gives him a start. She looks so much like  _ her _ in the moment that his lips part for a breath, and his breast fills with indignant rage.

But now she’s near tears, and her world is coming apart. And he feels that he… he cares for her. Of course he always had, but he thought eleven years of estrangement would be enough to dull his emotions. Apparently, he was wrong.

This makes him afraid, because even after eleven years, he is too much of a coward to do a simple thing. So he falls back on his old excuse—the one that had sustained every non-confrontational wish. Only now, he isn’t telling the truth. Now, it is a blatant lie.

“I’m sorry.” He says. And he is more sorry that he says it than for trying to make the statement real. But the words are already falling out, and he can’t stop them striking like mallets on her heart.

“It’s out of my hands.”

She does not accept the excuse as she knows it to be, not like she had before. Of course she wouldn’t—she is too intelligent for that. Intelligent enough to fire back with a venomous accusation. And there is truth in her low snarl.

“Just like his cruelty to our mother was  _ out of your hands _ .”

Sherlock deserves that, he knows he does. All the same, it feels as if she’s drawn a knife down his belly, and it’s a fight to keep his face straight.

Mycroft does not manage to keep the reaction out of his appearance. It burns him to be compared to Father, and there is a hint of regret in his expression. However, Enola is still looking at Sherlock, and she does not see

She stands, fierce-eyed, and angry.

Sherlock is suddenly hit with how beautiful she is, how very much grown up. She may not want a husband, but there is an arresting attractiveness about her that will not keep men away. How could he have missed that? How could he have let her change without him? All the time that he’d thrown away, and for what? 

She is a woman, doubtless. No longer the timid little girl he’d read to at night. He’d missed that. He’d let her slip away. After all these years, she’d still asked for him, and he’d just abandoned her again. 

This time, he realizes he wants to protect her. Only this time, she doesn’t need him to. And he may have just thrown away his shot at redemption.

_ Wait _ . He wants to say.  _ Just wait. I will make this right. You must tell me how to make this right. _

But he is too much of a coward, and she leaves before he gets the chance.

**< ~><><~>**

The Lady Basilwether looks a great deal like her son when she laughs, and that is a good thing. 

Make no mistake, she is a lady, and therefore laughs politely, in a manner that is proper for a woman of her standing. However, she has a genuine laugh: one that makes her nose scrunch just the slightest bit, and the right side of her mouth tilt up just a little more than the left.

When she laughs, it’s a cinch to see the family resemblance. When she laughs, her son’s smile comes easier. When she laughs, her shoulders relax, and she looks happy.

That in turn makes Enola happy. And so Enola makes it her personal mission to give the woman something to laugh about for every time she visits.

And Enola visits… far more often than she’d have thought she would. It’s all Tewksbury’s fault, really. He asks for her all the time. In fact, Enola finds herself declining many of his invitations simply because she  _ can’t _ . She’s too busy! And he understands—for the most part, which leads her to believe that it’s really his mother who prompts a meeting, and he is merely obliged to deliver the message.

Tewky isn’t one to invite Enola to tea, or for an evening ride in a carriage. He would be more interested in taking a picnic, or reading in the garden. That being said, the Lady Basilwether seldom accompanies the two for their frequencies, actually going to lengths to see that they have a modest level of privacy. Which leads Enola to another belief.

Tewksbury’s mother is encouraging a romance. 

She was clearly where her son had gotten it from—the poetic fantasizing. The flowery idealism. 

Enola wishes she could scoff at it, but the truth is, she feels flattered. She’d never been particularly driven to impress people. Why should she, after all? Their opinions do not matter, regardless of who they are, or where they come from. Though really, she has to admit to valuing a  _ select _ few people, as well as their views of her. Her mother is the most prominent of course. Sherlock, too, if she wants to be honest. Then Edith, Mrs. Lane, Mrs. Ford, and a handful of others. 

Somehow, Tewky has made his way onto that list. And by proxy, his mother, who is not as uptight as she may first have seemed. 

She is actually quite pleasant company, and—after the scandal with her mother-in-law—impressively prone to “new-thinking”. She seems to…  _ like _ Enola. Not simply tolerate her. And because Enola is Enola, she finds this flattering. The woman has become something even close to a friend. They are easy with each other.

In any case, it so happens that she has decided to join her son and Enola for this afternoon together, and her presence is welcome. She will make it a little less awkward, of course, and she will know the best snacks to call for.

Enola makes certain to recount with detail the escapades of her latest case—because she knows it will make the woman happy. Tewky sits back and watches her, amused, while his mother gasps, and laughs at all the right parts.

“And he proceeded to say,” Enola whips a strand of hair over her top lip. “We’ll have no boys in this establishment! Off with you!” Here, she can’t help a small giggle. “Now, I probably could have just revealed myself, and done away with the disguise, but I thought it would be more fun to go the other route. So with a straight face, I asked him, “But sir, what are you?”

Lady Basilwether laughs—her lovely, delighted laugh—and claps her ungloved hands together. “Oh my dear, how outrageous!” She exclaims.

Enola grins, pleased.

“Go on, go on, what did he say to that?” Her eyes sparkle as she leans forward.

“Well, he was so beside himself he  _ had _ to let me in!”

This evokes a chuckle from even old Tewky, who has already heard the story before. 

“Absolutely outrageous!”

Even some of the servants are smiling softly to themselves, as though they are amused, or happy for their mistress, who has not laughed in such a way since her husband died.

The Lady continues to chuckle to herself as she cuts into the tea cake. “That snob, he must have been so embarrassed.”

Enola brings her tea cup to her lips with a smirk. A very accurate summary, yes. “Indeed, he was. He…”

The story is abruptly cut short when a servant suddenly approaches from the door, marching with purpose towards their lounge. He looks a little flustered, and he is walking too fast. Is something wrong? But the only detail amiss about him is the perplexion on his face, and the extra amount of stiffness in his stride. Therefore the issue is only minor, or at least not dire.

Tewky and his mother set down their cutlery as they observe him, and Enola pauses mid-sip.

“My Lord Basilwether,” He addresses Tewksbury. “Ah…  _ Sherlock Holmes _ is in the parlour, requesting an audience with you.”

Enola nearly chokes on her tea. Only manners, and respect for her friends prevents her from spilling the fragrant liquid altogether.

The messenger said that he was  _ requesting _ an audience, implying that he was at the estate unannounced, and without an appointment. Did he know that Enola was here too? They’d been playing some kind of cat and mouse game for the past few months, but Enola always managed to evade him, and continue her work at the same time. Had he finally gotten the jump and found her? Oh, blast her friendship with Tewky, this was all his fault.

The Lady seems genuinely surprised by the development. Like the decent hostess she is, she stands from the table and sets aside her afternoon refreshments.

“Why, Sherlock Holmes?” She exclaims, glancing at Enola, who is still blinking in shock. “What on earth is he doing here?” Her eyes cut between Tewksbury and Enola in silent askance.

But they are too busy staring at one another in utter confusion. What could that eccentric detective possibly want?

“I’m not certain, My Lady. He didn’t say.”

At a loss for information, she straightens, and brushes down the front of her dress, donning a professional air. “Well—I think I will entertain his presence for the moment. Will you please direct me to him?”

The servant looks uncomfortable. “Actually, he wishes to speak with the young Lord. Alone, was his preference, he said.”

(Of course Enola picks up on the precise choice of words, and it only makes her more curious).

This seems to bewilder the Lady, and she blinks a few times before composing herself. “How strange. He didn’t mention his objective at all?”

“No, My Lady.”

“That is entirely odd.” Tewksbury mumbles, standing. He throws an impish smile at Enola. “Wonder if he knows you’re here.”

Enola makes a face at him.

“Well, I’ll go meet with the sleuth, see if I can’t deduce for myself what he’s after.” Sometimes Enola forgets that her friend isn’t actually a useless, idiotic boy. He’s almost a man (she’s gotten close to telling him, on more than one occasion), and he has all the responsibility of an adult. It’s perfectly acceptable that he entertain a guest all on his own. He is a lord, after all. A figure of power and prestige. Enola admires him a little bit in that moment.

“Very well,” His mother sighs, reluctantly lowering back into her chair. “We’ll save you some of the cake—though it will likely be cold by the time you return.”

“I expect a full report.” Enola adds frankly.

Tewksbury nods his assent, smooths out his lapels, and gestures for the servant to lead the way.

“Do, try to bother him!” Enola shouts as an afterthought, before they can entirely disappear down the hall.

Tewksbury’s laugh is her only response.

Indeed, if there is anything he seems good at, it’s being a bother. And even though she and Sherlock are on much better terms than before, she is still a little sister, and being a bother—whether by sicking her friends on him, or committing the act herself—is her innate duty. However, annoying Sherlock will be nowhere near as amusing if Enola isn’t present to watch; she comes to this conclusion very quickly.

A count of seconds pass in silence. The Lady settles her hands into her lap and frowns, contemplatively, staring at the cake as though reluctant to start eating now that their company is one short. They’ll probably save  _ all _ of it for him, truth be told. Not just because it’s impolite to eat without waiting, but also because Tewksbury makes food thrice as enjoyable just by sharing. He has that quality to his presence.

Enola sits perfectly still for long enough to hear the steps of her friend fade. Then, unable to wait a moment longer, she herself jumps up from the table and scoops her tea into hand.

“I say, Darling,” Lady Basilwether starts. “Are you going to leave me here all alone?”

Not, `where are you going?` or `what are you doing?`. Enola can say she adores the woman just then. Perhaps even as a second mother—or just… a real friend!

Enola turns with a sheepish grin on her face. “I don’t believe I should. Please, accompany me. I don’t know where the parlor is.”

Surprisingly, the Lady gets a mischievous glint in her eyes as she rises from the table, once more with a slow, deliberate swagger. Enola thinks she’s having quite a bit of fun: a new experience for such a proper, refined woman, and the idea that Enola is the inspiration for all this lark is exciting.

“Of course, Dear. I’ll show you myself.”

Like snickering school girls, they sneak down the hall with carefully-concealed intent, peering around corners, and dodging servants. Best not to let anyone in on their schemes.

After many spiralling hallways and graceful staircases, they arrive at the side entrance of the parlor, maintaining peak stealth. No one has seen them as far as Enola can tell, and she hadn’t spilled any of her tea. Sipping it, so as to disguise her elated grin, she raises an eyebrow at the Lady.

“Shall we go inside, or merely listen from behind the closed door?”

Lady Basilwether considers this carefully, tapping a finger against her lips. After a few moments of quiet deliberation, she says, “You should go in. I’m afraid I’m far too conspicuous to not arouse suspicion.”

Enola looks down at their clothes. Her own dress is simple enough to belong to one of the maids that they’d seen, slipping in and out of the room, but the Lady’s is all finery and flowy skirts. No, she definitely couldn’t pass through unnoticed. But Enola could, if she were to find a bonnet to hide her face.

And one is conveniently resting atop the nearest sideboard, along with a tray of dishes. Excellent. Everything falling neatly into place. Did it matter that they were deliberately invading Tewksbury and Sherlock’s privacy? Surely Enola’s morals did her any service.

Yes, a piece of her conscience tells her to mind other peoples’ affairs with respect. However, her instincts likewise tell her that because this is a spontaneous conversation between her best friend and her aloof older brother that had gone to specific lengths to exclude any audience, it therefore needs to be investigated.

Lady Basilwether helps fasten the bonnet about Enola’s face.

“There is a table beneath the window.” She says as she expertly ties the ribbons. “If they haven’t chosen to meet there, it will be a good place to sit. You will be half hidden by drapery.”

Enola nods in understanding. “Excellent.” She grins, and sets the tea cup onto the tray with the similar set of china. 

“Go on, now. I’ll be right out here if you need anything.” Her eye winks just as deftly as her fingers make bows, and Enola feels happy.

What fun they have at the Basilwether estate.

Carefully, Enola opens the door to the room and walks in with her head down. Her eyes immediately set to work.

The parlor is lovely. Its ceiling is high, to start, and the walls are covered in elegant golden paper that glows if one tilts their head just right. A grand fireplace takes up a good portion of the right wall. Accents of carven stone outline the windows, billowing up the walls and dipping about the mantle like thick blocks of light gray frosting. Carpeting the color of clouds is soft under Enola’s boots.

The area is spacious and free, yet cozy at the same time. Its atmosphere is comfortable in spite of the distance between all the furniture. Here and there, plump armchairs will be positioned between couches like white layers of buttercream, dotted on occasion with stands of coasters that off the bright tones in shaves of dark chocolate. The shape of them is round and graceful; not a single sharp edge is to be found at all. If Enola has to make a weapon out of anything, her best bet would be smashing the tea pot and using its shards like shanks. Not that she intends to do this. 

Her goal is merely reconnaissance.

Across the way, there is a table beneath the high-reaching glass. Dark wood carves smooth under white curtains that flit and flutter ceaselessly. It seems some maid has opened the portals to outside. From their vantage, a lovely view of the woods can be seen, and the table is all but disguised from the main seating near the cold hearth, where the one and only Sherlock Holmes has taken up conversation with Lord Tewksbury.

Enola passes them on her way to the aforementioned table, bustling by with her eyes tilted into the plush carpet. She’s noticed how resilient it is. Even with the weight of her shoes, she does not leave footprints. That must make it easy to clean.

Neither of the males seems to notice her at all as she carries the tray of dishes. It does help that neither is truly facing her direction, as both are slightly angled towards the windows, and really only see her back. If she herself were to turn, she would have perfect view of their faces, yet at the same time, it would be unnatural for them to swivel and look at her. She almost smirks at the neatness of the situation.

“Are you familiar with Detective Lestrade?” Sherlock begins promptly. 

Suddenly hearing his familiar voice almost gives Enola pause, though her back is turned. 

Her brother. He hasn’t much changed since they last met. He still wears a professional suit about his business, as if off to a gala instead of some unsolved mystery. Enola remembers how he fancied those suits. Mother adored him in an overcoat of plaid, but he prefered the richer colors like the snob he is. Navy blue does look good on him. Though as much as the style compliments his appearance, something about a pressed jacket and matching pants doesn’t quite reflect his real personality, or the queer mannerisms he is prone to.

Enola feels she hasn’t seen him in ages. It’s really only been a handful of weeks. She passed him in the square, dressed as a business lady on her way to crack a case. The familiarity of him had struck her then. The sharp scan of his gaze, and the way he arches his right brow without realizing. The way his dark, messy curls had been brushed in frustration to the side. She’d seen him there, as she walked, and she had known he would look like that. But not because she could read his stance and understand he was frustrated. Simply because she knew him. And she was familiar with him. 

Why?

Well, they were family, after all. Even though Enola had taken one look, and walked away.

Her brother is a mystery she doesn’t have time to solve. She has her own life, her own business. Her own way of doing things. No matter how warm and sympathetic Sherlock might act in his own right, the simple truth is that Enola can’t trust him to look after her. He said he wouldn’t, and she has no reason to believe that he lied. It’s alright, it isn’t as if he’s responsible for her. Why, even Eudoria promised she’d protect Enola, and here Enola is. On her own. Mycroft, to his credit, did do his best, but Enola didn’t want his kind of guardianship, and that is where they’ve left it. She’s not quite sure where she stands with Sherlock. But as was mentioned, she doesn’t have time to figure it out.

It’s… it’s true, she wishes it wasn’t like this. She wishes they could just be a proper family. She wishes Sherlock would do something to change her perception of him. That he would prove he really did care. It’s only a wish though, and Enola isn’t going to ask him to change, especially if he’s happy the way he is, and not hurting anyone. She won’t take away his happiness. Not for any selfish reason.

The resolution doesn’t fill the brother-shaped emptiness in Enola’s heart, but she’s willing to let it stand nonetheless. It helps to keep moving forward.

Thankfully, Tewky is right on.

“I have heard the name, once or twice.” He admits behind Enola, and she can hear him shifting.

It seems they’ve just sat down. Lucky that no important part of the conversation was missed.

Enola carefully sets the tray on the table and begins arranging the tea and dishes, as though she was ordered to prepare the space for someone’s afternoon refreshments. A curtain flaps by her arm. What a convenient little set-up Lady Basilwether has here.

“Perhaps you will remember: he reported the resolution of your missing-person’s case, some months ago.” Sherlock drawls helpfully.

That sardonic son of a mother.

“Ah, yes. An investigator with the city police.”

“Indeed. You know, he told me about it in person.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. You see, as I understand it, you did not merely return to the estate out of your own accord, is that correct? That is, you were not alone.”

Enola hefts the teapot from the tray and sets it down with a  _ thunk _ . Being intentionally quiet will arouse suspicion.

Tewksbury pauses. “Your pardon, Mr. Holmes, I don’t understand that it’s any of your business.” Yes! He’s being a bother! “Surely you have access to the report yourself.”

A low, silent chuckle carries on the air of the room. “Oh certainly, Viscount Tew—”

“It’s `Lord Basiwether`, actually.”

Enola hopes her turned back will hide her grin of glee.

“Many apologies, my lord.”

“I doubt my title is what you are here to acknowledge, Detective. If I might be so frank, you’ve come unannounced, and I believe you wish to discuss more personal matters.”

Sherlock sounds like he’s smiling proudly when he answers. “Of course, my lord. I was just getting to that. You know as well as I that the report omits a key character: the one who really solved the case.”

“Your sister. I am aware.”

There is a beat of silence.

“My sister.”

Enola tidies up the china and sets the tray aside. She’s completed her disguise. Now, all she has to do is fade into the background, until both of them forget she is there. It helps that another maid comes in promptly to survey the work she’s done. The woman’s brows shoot up in surprise. Enola must have finished someone else’s job. 

After exchanging a few quiet words with the maid, they scurry to a third, more obscure entrance, completely out of view of the Lord and his audience. Enola pretends to leave, then returns to her tea where she has set it on the table, hoping her ploy is enough to fool the two not-entirely-idiotic boys.

“I believe she helped you. In fact, that is what Lestrade told me.”

“So you are here to talk about your sister.”

“You are her associate, are you not?”

“And what information could I possibly give you, sir? You are her brother, are you not?”

“Yes, well you  _ sound _ most like she does.”

Enola arranges her tea cup in her hands and stands back against the golden wall. Curtains blow airily. What an intriguing conversation. Her instincts were correct in urging her presence. They were deliberately speaking about her! Not that she minded, really. She just didn’t want to miss a word. Her hand tilted tea to her lips.

“What is it that I might help you with, Detective?” Tewksbury demands, no less politely. Enola can see him fold his hands. Not lacing his fingers together, as would imply relaxed feelings, but layered, cupped, in a much more formal, business-like fashion. He may be young, but he is not to be condescended.

Sherlock regards him for a moment. His sharp, blue gaze is carefully analytical, and he takes in every detail of Tewksbury as he processes the question. Always the noticer, Enola thinks off-handedly. Never one to miss a thing.

Tewky, to his credit, remains patient as he is scrutinized. His nerves are to be marveled at. Enola herself might squirm under such a search.

After about a minute of this careful deduction, the sleuth must have decided that he was satisfied with what he saw.

“I would ask that you pass a message to her.”

Tewksbury raises an eyebrow at the same time Enola tilts her head curiously. “And what makes you think I have contact with her?” He counters. Enola is proud with the ease of his words.

A soft smile graces Sherlock’s lips. “There are few certainties in life, my lord. That you have direct contact with her, or are in the process of gaining it, is one.”

The faintest blush fights to creep onto Tewky’s face. “Let us entertain that I do not know where she is, or likewise how to get a message. I may not be a complete fool, but neither am I Enola’s equal—in intelligence, that is.”

Enola’s heart stammers.

“How shall you expect me to carry out your wishes?”

Sherlock quickly ensues another silent investigation of the lord. This one is shorter, and by the time Sherlock is finished, the corners of his mouth are barely turned down in a painstaking effort to conceal his smile.

“Determination, Lord Basilwether. It is a powerful tool in the hand of any young man.”

The blush deepens.

“Did you perhaps consider that she does not want a message from you? That perhaps… she is evasive by intent?”

All good points!

The question seems to sober Sherlock to quite a degree. All hints of amusement fade from his eyes, and his chin dips a fraction. The subtlety of his change in expression implies that what he feels is real remorse, and this is intriguing to Enola. 

_ Or perhaps you’re feeling guilty! _

_ I’m here because I care for you. _

_ You’re being emotional. _

She hadn’t trusted his words at the finishing school, no matter how much she had wanted to. It had been hard to trust him, after everything he’d allowed, after all the inaction he’d taken. Did he really truly love her, after all those years he’d sent nothing but silent dismissal? 

Enola had wanted him to, wanted to matter to him. Perhaps it was what she wanted most, because it was all she seemed to lack. What had she done wrong that he abandoned their family entirely? She could think of nothing. So that empty, broken relationship burned a whole in her heart, and all she wanted was for her idol to feel anything in return. He viewed emotions as unnecessary. And so died any connection they might once have had.

Was it wrong for hope to sprout in that cauterized cavity when Mother left for good? Enola was a noticer too, and she had noticed that her brothers saw her. Really saw her as they never had before. This gave her hope. Was that wrong?

It didn’t entirely seem so, but as painful as it is to wait, Enola is far too intelligent to let that hope surge. She’s been pruning it carefully for months now, and it has since grown small. It is strong, and very much alive—but it is small, and it has nothing to do with this meeting.

“I have been searching for months.” Sherlock murmurs, almost to himself. “If she wanted to meet with me, she is more than capable of doing so. I merely wish to make my intentions clear—once. And after that… if I am rejected, I will respect the person she has become.”

Tewksbury now seems fully intrigued, as is Enola. Where is Sherlock going with this conversation? What is he talking about? It is a little throwing. Whatever the two young adults seemed to have expected from the man, this is not in concurrency.

Tewky keeps his hands folded, but he leans forward and tilts his head a litte, giving away that the detective has his full attention. “What do you propose, Mr. Holmes?” He asks with eyes slightly narrowed.

Enola sips her tea. It isn’t hot anymore, but she’s still enjoying it.

“Enola is old enough to be alone. However, that doesn’t mean she has to be.”

“Yes, well her mother—”

“Her— _ our _ mother is out of the picture. She has taken her own path, and for better or for worse, left Enola.”

Enola wants to scowl at the implications, though she can tell her brother means no ill. Eudoria is doing very important work, and while she very well could have waited another two years, Enola finds she can’t truly blame the woman. It’s not exactly as though Enola needs her anymore.

“And I presume you wish to board her, then? As your brother did?” Tewksbury’s indignance suddenly rises. “Has he sent you here, in some hideous effort to micromanage the life of someone you barely know?”

“Now wait just—”

“Enola is a beautiful, intelligent, remarkable young woman,”

“I don’t in—”

“She does  _ not _ need her wings tied, and I will not allow you to cage such an amazing creature, who deserves to fly free in all her radiance! A shame that society should seek to do so, Mr. Holmes, but as her brother, you have failed her in this way.”

Enola can feel her pulse racing. Her heart is in arrhythmic flux. Oh, oh dear Tewky, with his flattering words. Does he know she’s standing there? Or is he saying all of that because he thinks she isn’t? Enola can feel blood heating her face in excess amounts.

A different kind of flush colors Tewksbury’s cheeks, matching the angry glare that twists his lips and sharpens his brow. He stares at Sherlock challengingly, daring him to deny the bold words.

But Sherlock does nothing of the sort. He simply frowns, and turns his gaze to the nebulous carpet floor.

Silence ticks by in a few counts. Cool air rushes into the room, and Enola shifts with the breath of the window. What will he say? What will he say?

Eventually, her brother clears his throat. His voice returns, low and soft, like a genuine apology of running water.

“I have no intention of hindering your friend—your associate—or whoever she is to you. That is not my desire.”

Some of the tension eases from Tewksbury’s shoulders, even though by looks, he too finds Sherlock hard to trust. “And what, pray tell,  _ is _ your desire, Mr. Holmes?”

Enola scrutinizes the man carefully. With a start, she can see that he is strained. The muscles in his jaw are tight, his fingers are stiff, and his body is still—painfully so. He is being emotional. Ah, the mighty brought low. What is there to be emotional about? It’s only his estranged kid sister that they are regarding.

“I want her to be happy.”

It sounds so different coming from him than it did from Mycroft. They both told the truth, but Sherlock is the one who really knows what it means. Enola can tell by the lilt in his voice. She is stunned. Her tea has quickly grown cold.

“And I want her to be safe. I want…I want…” Sherlock swallows a little and seems to wrestle with the words. He is clearly uncomfortable saying them to a stranger like Tewksbury, and Enola can’t help but wonder if it would be easier for him to have met with her instead, as he prefered. Whatever the case, it takes him a great deal of effort to complete his thought. He flounders for a few seconds, uncomposed, and entirely out of character.

A sigh eventually huffs through his lips. “Well, I  _ don’t _ want to control her. She is her own person.”

Tewksbury nods slightly. He is patient.

“I know I have failed her in more ways than one, and what I want is to make it right.”

Redemption? That almost seems cliché. Not entirely unwelcome, however.

Tewksbury nods again. “Seems to be a just motive. But what is your plan for that, if I may ask?”

The question steadies Sherlock, and he sits up a little straighter. “By giving her everything she needs, in order to live the life that is best for her.”

“And who decides what is best?”

“Enola.” The answer is instantaneous, given without a second thought. He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t even blink. “She bears great intelligence. She is smart enough to know what that entails, without me saying a thing.”

Tewksbury seems to agree.

Enola feels lightheaded, and quite unable to believe what’s happening.

“And what will you give her?”

A crease forms between Sherlock’s brows, and his head tilts to the side. He’s seeking approval, and he doesn’t even seem to realize. “This is the message I wish for you to deliver.” He states firmly. “Know that I mean it all with utter sincerity.”

Tewky gives him a gesture to proceed.

“Mycroft and I have come to an agreement in the past count of months. Absent as her mother is, legal custody of Enola Holmes has been transferred to me.”

Enola’s mouth falls open. 

She wants to question the authenticity of the statement. It’s too outlandish, too unexpected. How could he possibly mean that? If she thinks about it, the thing is possible. Not only possible but probable as well—and yet, entirely unbelievable. Not unbelievable that Mycroft would relinquish custody, neither unbelievable that Sherlock, next in line, would agree to take it up. It’s just… after all these years, after so long being  _ distant _ , and disconnected, could it really be that this relationship is—not only recovered, but—on its way to mended?

Hope so sudden punches roots through Enola’s heart. The impact of it brings tears to her eyes, and makes her body weak. Does he really want her? Does he really care?

“I will be her guardian, if she choses.” He takes a deep breath, voice raw and earnest. “I will guide her, teach her, show her everything I know. And I will protect her. I  _ swear _ it.”

Some noise is stuck in Enola’s throat. It might be a sob, or a gasp, she doesn’t know for certain. Whatever it is has her ears ringing, and she barely hears when her tea cup slips from her hands with a clatter.

Cold, flowery tea splashes dark on the thick carpet. All the air shudders from Enola’s lungs. Her vision is blurred. From her right eye, a single tear spills.

“Oh,” She breaths, hands shaking as she sees the stain on the lovely floor. “Oh.”

Sherlock and Tewksbury whirl around. Tewky is only mildly surprised to behold her presence, and Sherlock’s eyes are wide.

“Why,” Her voice wobbles. “Why, you’re being emotional.”

He gapes. For a moment, she is proud that she managed to fool him.

“I-it’s understandable…” The words crack under the weight of the noise, and Enola can no longer contain a weak cry. It’s closer to a sob.

Both of them shoot to their feet.

She firmly presses a fist to her lips and tries to stop any more tears from falling. Why is she crying? Shouldn’t she be happy? But perhaps she is. So very happy. It’s odd, how just a few words can do that. 

A wet laugh bubbles around her clenched fingers. “Oh, look at me. I’ve made a mess of the carpet.”

Tewksbury shakes his head and tells her it’s alright.

She looks up at a blurry Sherlock. His body is tensed, ready to move at another moment’s notice—but he hesitates for some reason, so Enola does too, even though she wants nothing more now than to throw her arms around him and cry.

“Did you mean that?”

He has a strange look on his face, but it’s genuine, and as far as Enola can tell, he’s entirely sincere.

“Of course.”

Right, left, her tears fall. She laughs again, this time in sheer joy.

He  _ wants _ her. He  _ cares _ .

What a dream.

“Really?”

That word gives Sherlock the strength to overcome whatever trepidation held him back. He steps forward carefully—a little stiff and unsure, but determined nonetheless.

For once, his proximity doesn’t intimidate Enola, or make her nervous. In fact, she feels quite reassured. Comforted, almost. She feels as if she’s five years old again, curled up safe in the arms of her family. Home.

With all the gentleness of a butterfly, her brother brings his hands to her head and cups her face. The action is so tender, and sweet, Enola is inclined to believe that someone has kidnapped her socially awkward, self-centered, arrogant sibling and replaced him with this warm, affectionate man. 

Not that she wants the former back.

“Enola,” He says softly, meeting her eyes with a gaze so intense it could burn. “I know you don’t need me. I know you don’t need my help.”

Tewksbury makes a noise of agreement.

“But I’ve already abandoned you twice now, and I have no intention of making that mistake a third time.”

Enola sniffles loudly.

“If it’s what you want, I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect like I should have from the day you were born.”

After eleven years, he’s finally worked up the courage to say that, it seems. To mean it. There is nothing but open honesty in his face, raw, and earnest. Vulnerable, even. He’s letting himself be vulnerable. He’s allowing the possibility of rejection, all to give her a choice.

There’s really only one question left to ask.

“Promise?”

When he smiles, Enola thinks it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever seen, and she wants to laugh again. Years seem to fade from his face, lights dance behind his eyes. 

Safe. Only this time, it’s real. There’s no expiration date, no catch, no smoking mirror. Enola is safe. Finally.

“I promise.”

She forgets all about the tea on the floor and crushes him in a single bound, throwing her arms around his neck. The force of her embrace nearly sends them toppling to the floor, but Sherlock stumbles and catches them just in time. Now the tears fall in rivers. 

Enola thinks she’s surprised him. For a moment, he doesn’t do anything but stand there dumbly, likely with the air knocked out of his lungs. But then he carefully relaxes, and he hugs her back, one arm cradling her head against his shoulder.

Safe safe safe.

They stay like that for a while, at last able to soak up one another’s being there. It feels so right. It feels like family, again, and that is a good thing.

No more evasive chases, no more stiff visits in a headmistress’ office, no more sneaking down hallways at night because the din of damaged love has grown too loud to fall asleep. Of course, they are Holmeses, and that means they will never be like a normal, English family. But Enola wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That seems to be for the best.” She tells her brother with a wide wobbly smile, as she finally lets go of him. “It’s the most practical course of action, obviously. And it is most sensible in every regard.”

Sherlock’s grin is boyish and amused. “Certainly. Does this mean that I’m forgiven?”

Enola scoffs lightly and pushes his arm. “You never gave a formal apology.”

“Little sister,” He takes one of her hands in his own, and his gaze turns mostly serious. “I am utterly sorry for every way in which I’ve caused you pain. I cannot change our past, but I can ensure a better future. Will you allow me?”

Tiny, bubbly giggles race up Enola’s throat. “Yes, you oaf. I forgive you.”

“That is very good news. Because it seems I have missed my assistant lately.” His eyes twinkle in a mischievous way. “A lady detective, you understand. And I think you should fill the vacancy quite well.”

“I thought you were predisposed to working alone.”

“Being alone is overrated. I’ve found that having a little help doesn’t hurt sometimes.”

“In that case, I will be much obliged to accept.”

“Excellent. I feel we shall get along swimmingly.”

They beam at each other.

“Excellent.” Tewksbury chimes in. 

Enola starts when she hears his voice. What a bother. Though perhaps, she has nigh on every reason to thank him, because all these good things are his fault.

“Now that that’s resolved, would you both care to join us upstairs for another round of tea?”

Ah, tea. Enola’s already had a cup herself. Or, half a cut, at least. She glances back at the stain on the floor. “I’m so sorry about this—”

But before she can apologize for the mess formally, the side door of the room bursts open, and Lady Basilwether bustles in. “Don’t worry about the mess, Darling. I’ve already sent someone to clean it up.”

Sherlock seems surprised again, and judging by the strain of the muscles in his face, he is not used to being so. “Your pardon, exactly how many people were eavesdropping?”

Enola blushes. “You couldn’t tell?” She teases, but it’s clear he was too preoccupied to make a fair assessment of his surroundings. She ducks her head and mumbles sheepishly, “Only us two.” 

“We’re having cake as well.” The lady states without shame. “Mr. Holmes, won’t you join in?”

“Oh, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth—”

“But you’d love to anyway.” Enola promptly decides. She catches hold of his arm and begins dragging him towards the door. “This is a momentous occasion. We must celebrate with at least minor festivities.”

He is loath to resist, because she has decided that it is best.

“Wonderful!” Lady Basilwether laughs, and winks at Enola.

What a strange procession they make, the four of them, marching back up to the sitting room where they’d been enjoying the narrative of Enola’s last case. The Basilwethers implore her to begin the tale again, for her brother’s sake, and Enola thinks that it’s the most she’s seen the lady laugh in all the time they’ve known each other.

Either Sherlock lied about lacking a taste for sweet things, or the baker is exceptional. It’s entirely likely that the second of the two is more probable, because Sherlock doesn’t make promises without meaning them. He promised to Mother once that he didn’t care for sugary foods. He says that sugar’s only function is to reduce bitterness, and he takes two of them in his coffee.

Not that he is presumptuous; he is a little subdued in quite possibly the most refreshing way. None of that characteristic arrogance which will be fun to live with. Though he does revive some when he catches Tewksbury looking Enola’s way—far more often than would be considered normal—and Sherlock’s whole face lights up.

“Enola, with your permission I’d like to ask my first question, as your official guardian.”

Somehow, she doesn’t think he wants to ask it of her. However, they are all in good spirits, and she is flattered for a great many reasons. So she nods her assent.

He turns to Tewksbury, looking a little too eager.

“If I may ask, Lord Basilwether, what are your intentions with my sister?”

Tewksbury’s mother approves of this question completely. But Tewky and Enola go red at the same time.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES!”

**Author's Note:**

> And when Enola goes off on her own for real (a few years later), Sherlock decides that he misses having a detective partner, and let’s all just pretend that that’s where Watson comes in (:


End file.
